


Áine’s Legacy

by Lady Angel (dameange)



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: BAMF Stiles, Celtic Mythology & Folklore, F/M, M/M, Magical Tattoos, Sheriff Stilinski Finds Out, Tattooed Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-01-21
Updated: 2018-01-21
Packaged: 2019-03-07 20:12:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13442466
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dameange/pseuds/Lady%20Angel
Summary: On the eve of Stiles’ thirteenth birthday, a crone appeared to take his son away.





	Áine’s Legacy

**Author's Note:**

> This was written before we knew Stiles' mother's name.

_Past_

John Stilinski had seventeen wonderful, incredible years with his amazing wife. Eleven of those years he shared her with their hyper, happy, loving son. The year Stiles was twelve they slowly lost her to cancer.

On the eve of Stiles’ thirteenth birthday, an old woman appeared at his door to take his son away.

~*~*~*~*~*~  
~*~*~*~*~*~

_Present_

Derek forced himself to relax. 

Everything was fine. Not perfect, but fine. 

Stiles was gone; his annual trip to visit his mother’s family. Two weeks gone, another week left before Stiles returned to spend the rest of the summer with their pack.

Everything was fine.

Everything.

~*~*~*~*~*~

John sighed at his empty refrigerator. He’d eaten everything Stiles had left him. Stress eating was surprisingly healthy since guilt ate at him when Stiles was gone.

Pain seared through his head. Blackness consumed him.

He came to as he was dumped onto the ground. John blinked, trying to focus.

“ – where’s Mr. Stilinski? I’m sure he’d be interested in the proceedings.”

“Let them go, Gerard.”

John could only stare, uncomprehendingly, at the scene unfolding.

Gerard Argent stood over his own son, a gun pointed at Chris’ head. Allison Argent held a crossbow aimed at her grandfather. Chris could barely sit upright, bleeding from his mouth and ears, one arm cradled awkwardly, most likely broken.

Another man held a gun to Melissa’s head. Tears streamed down her cheeks but her eyes were angry hard, her body tensed to move at the first opportunity.

A boy. Hawaiian. Danny something. He was panting into the ground, one arm barely holding him up, the other curled around his stomach. He could see something dark dripping through the boy’s fingers.

A gun pressed against his own temple.

Squared off were . . . creatures. Fangs and claws and dear God, Scott was one of them. His eyes glowed gold, like many of the others. Jackson Whittmore’s were blue.

But Derek Hale’s were enraged red.

Gerard Argent grinned, malicious and near insane. His gun swung up and around. “Well, since he deprived me of my kanima--”

_A what?_

The gunshot was loud, the pain searing.

John grabbed at his stomach.

Outraged howls; Melissa screamed.

“No! John! Just let me --”

Snarls and growls, the sound of flesh hitting flesh, gunshots overlaying everything.

Warm blood seeped between his fingers; warm blood splattered on his face.

Agonized, animal sounds; soft whimpers; a cacophony of voices.

He forced his eyes open.

Scott, Hale, their friends were writhing on the ground, riddled with bullets and black lines.

Lydia Martin unconscious, red hair spilled across the forest floor, red blood dripped from her head and mouth.

Allison fought her grandfather but was losing.

Melissa fought and begged as her captor dragged her away; arms stretching towards her thrashing son.

Allison went down, stayed down; her father deathly still by her side.

Gerard stood over Scott’s body, a sword-wielding executioner. “Good-bye, Scott.”

“No.”

His wound became insignificant. All noise died away.

Stiles appeared out of a sudden mist. His hands slowly unbuttoned his shirt, his stride measured and sure.

Gerard and his people seemed frozen as they watched. Recognition flared, the old man relaxed. “Ah, Mr. Stilinski. The bolt in the cogs; it’s good to see you, my boy.”

John willed his son to leave; there was nothing he could do to save them. Whatever Scott and their friends were, they were too far gone to save. Just like him.

“It’s okay, Dad.” Stiles touched his cheek, his hand came away wet with blood. His son didn’t seem to notice. His hand swept down and over John’s wound.

John gasped as sharp warmth flooded him, arching into it, against it. Power moved through him, healed him. Whole once more, he sat up, blinked in disbelief when Stiles’ shirt flow down his arms.

His son’s back was filled. Dark lines, Celtic patterns. Exquisite, sinuous, they covered his back. Glimmered on his skin, curves and knots connecting a rearing wolf on his left side, a rampant griffin on his right. Above them, a stag, great antlers stretching towards the back of Stiles’ neck. A dragon twined its way from his right elbow, up around his bicep, laid it’s head on his right clavicle. A murder of crows and ravens flocked his upper left arm.

The tattooed creatures slithered off Stiles’ body, nothing but shadows, claws, teeth, beaks, and talons. Growing large, life-sized before his eyes; snarling, screeching, roaring they turned towards Gerard and his men.

Human screams, begging, pleading, but the shadow creatures would not relent.

Birds dove and pecked, tearing away bits of flesh at a time. The flap of mighty wings as the griffin soared, claws opening to drop its captive from hundreds of feet. The dragon breathed fire, the scent of burning flesh thick and sickening.

Gerard swung the sword but the wolf leapt through it. The dark shadowy canine ripped him apart, threw its head back and howled in triumph.

Finally, silence.

The stag, still on Stiles’ skin, bounded off now. Different from the others, a ghostly white instead of the others’ darkness. One by one, it touched its antlers to Scott, Melissa, Hale, and the others.

Completely healed, they stood, stunned and staring at Stiles.

The creatures sauntered back to Stiles, obviously proud of their victory. They returned to their places until only the stag was left. It stopped in front of Stiles; he stroked it as if it was a pet. Maybe it was, to his son. Stiles turned so that the stag could resume its place.

John moved just in time to catch his unconscious son.

~*~*~*~*~*~

His family’s home had never been so full yet so still and silent.

His pack and their attachments had gathered in the den. The bodies outside could be taken care of later.

“So, how long has your son not been human?” Argent asked, breaking the uncomfortable hush.

“So, how long has your father been a murdering sociopath?” the sheriff shot back.

It made Derek smile. It reminded him of Stiles, who still hadn’t woken up, out cold on the couch. He wanted to touch him, needed to reassure himself through touch and taste that Stiles was well and alive, but his father’s fierce glare had stopped him.

Argent opened his mouth, but thought better of it when he saw Allison’s face.

It was silent again until, surprisingly, the sheriff broke it.

“On Stiles’ thirteenth birthday, an old woman showed up at the house. She was there to take my son away from me. Not forever, of course, just for a little while, she promised. She said Stiles was a child of Áine. That he needed training and teaching.” The sheriff sat slumped in the armchair. He stared at nothing, tiredness seeping out everywhere. “I had no idea who Áine was. My wife’s name was Siobhán.”

“Áine is the Celtic goddess of love, fertility, summer, wealth, and sovereignty,” Lydia said softly from the circle of Jackson’s arms. Beside them curled Danny.

The sheriff nodded. “My wife was one of her descendants, apparently, but she wasn’t born with enough power to train. The old woman said.” He swallowed as he stared at his sleeping son. “She said he would need it.”

Derek winced as the sheriff glared at him, then at Argent.

“Every year, for three weeks, during the summer, Stiles goes to visit her.”

“He comes back quieter than normal,” Scott whispered. He had his arm around his mother, but the other hand clasped Allison’s.

The sheriff nodded. “I . . . I didn’t want to know. He never said.”

“You didn’t know about the tattoos?” Melissa asked incredulously.

The sheriff bent a look at her. “When was the last time you saw Stiles without a shirt?”

She was clearly bemused as she realized that she never had. None of them had.

“Not even after lacrosse practice,” Isaac offered from next to Derek’s knee.

He reached down to card his fingers through his beta’s hair, feeling the younger man relax. Derek had steered Isaac towards Boyd and Erica, but Isaac had stubbornly refused and curled around Derek’s legs instead.

No one else had anything to offer after the sheriff had said his fill. Even though it was late, no one moved to leave. It seemed everyone wanted to wait to make sure that Stiles would wake.

~*~*~*~*~*~  
~*~*~*~*~*~

_Future_

John laughed as he stood on the Hale House’s back porch. His son and his pack chased each other, a game of tag that took them all back to their childhoods. 

Melissa and Chris were fighting over the grill, not knowing that in the end, it was Stiles who would take over and win.

His son yelled as his alpha pounced on him; the two of them tumbling into the autumn leaves, laughing and wrestling. Derek letting Stiles win as he straddled the older man, smiling and teasing, words eventually smothered by a kiss. 

John resigned himself to them. Gwrtheyrn had made his choice and Derek loved him to distraction. It was all a father could ask for his son.

The End


End file.
